


A Ghost Story

by ysande



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/pseuds/ysande
Summary: There's treasure to be had - but beware of the ghosts.Written in 2008 for bookaddict43, who requested a fic in which Nathan runs a con and gains new appreciation for Ezra.





	

The Lafferty brothers had found treasure at an old Indian burial site, but Nathan wished to God that they hadn't, or at least that they'd had the sense to keep it to themselves.

"Yours is the third broken leg I've set this week," he said sternly to Brian McInness, who didn't have the sense that a goose was born with, and who just grinned and nodded at Nathan with genial good humour. "What you all got to poke around that burial site for, anyway?"

"Pete Lafferty found this gold bracelet down there. It's made of gold and silver beads and he's gonna sell it for a fortune back East."

"Grave robbing's a despicable thing," said Nathan disapprovingly. "Ain't you got no respect for the dead?"

"Aw," protested McInness. "They won't be needin' it no more."

"Fools, the lot of you," muttered Nathan. "You know how many people have come to see me this past week, who hurt themselves climbing all over those rocks?"

"Broken legs'll heal," said McInness with a tranquillity that riled Nathan even more.

"Broken necks won't," snapped Nathan in reply.

He hated to see bodies smashed up for no reason. He'd seen enough of that in the War. But what angered Nathan most - what set a deep, hot fire growing inside him - was the desecration of the burial ground, even though he had no idea who'd been buried there or where their people were now. That was just it, he thought. The Indians who'd used the burial ground had long since gone and there was no-one left to protest the looting that was going on. But Nathan felt that the dead shouldn't need guardians to protect their rest.

"People'll risk a lot for treasure," wheedled McInness, as if that was any excuse at all.

"It's a cursed place," Nathan said darkly.

Fear flickered in McInness's eyes. "Cursed?"

The fool had taken him literally, Nathan realised. Spurred on by a sudden rash inspiration, Nathan nodded. "Yep," he said. "The Seminole tell about it all the time. The dead haunt that burial place. Not just the Indian dead, but all the men that died without a proper burial in these parts. Why do you think the place is deserted? Them ghosts get real unfriendly when the living start pokin' around."

McInness licked his lips nervously. Nathan stopped himself from snickering. Idiots like McInness wouldn't take heed of a real threat to their safety, like the very likely possibility of breaking their neck while clambering around all those rocks and caves, but there merest mention of ghosts had them white around the gills.

"You watch yourself out there," Nathan said ominously as he helped the man down the stairs of the clinic. "Them ghosts, they'll want their retribution."

And, watching McInness try to look in all directions at once while limping down the street with the aid of a crutch, Nathan couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

He was in the saloon later that day with a mug of beer in one hand and a medical text on the table before him. Summer's heat was starting up in earnest outside.

The batwing doors of the saloon swung open, and for a moment the silhouette of a man darkened the entrance before they came in. Nathan paid him no heed. It was still early for the saloon to be so busy - Ezra was at his customary table, absorbed in a poker game with a few strangers - but the heat outside was enticing people in.

A fist thumped down on the page he was reading, forcing Nathan to look up.

"There a problem?" he said flatly. It was Pete Lafferty.

"What's this nonsense you've been saying about ghosts at my treasure ground?" Pete demanded.

Nathan raised an eyebrow at Pete's claim of possession.

"Nothin' that you won't find out in your own time," he said, more calmly than he felt, and returned his attention to his book.

"You listen to me," snarled Pete. "No darkie doctor's going to stand between me and my fortune from that place. You'd best know your place, if you know what's good for you." 

"Ain't my place to tell the dead what to do," retorted Nathan with some fire in his voice. "Any that go disrespectin' the dead will have the dead to answer to, not me."

"The dead!" said Pete contemptuously. "What are the dead gonna do? You stay out of my way, that's all."

"Hm," said Nathan, unconvinced, but Pete had already stormed off.

"What was that about?" Tom the barman wanted to know.

"Ghosts," said Nathan, shaking his head. "Ghosts!"

Clay Aitken sidled up to his table, accompanied by a few men Nathan only knew by sight.

"What's this we've been hearing about ghosts at the old Indian burial place?" asked Clay anxiously. "I saw McInness earlier. He's dead certain his leg's going to fall off."

"He one of the ones that been pokin' around the burial grounds?" Nathan demanded. He didn't like lying but he could and had done it to great effect when it was called for. There were morals, and there were morals, and Nathan was still angry with a fierce, helpless rage at the desecration of the dead. "Serves him right, then. The ghosts will get all of them soon enough."

Clay blanched. "It wasn't our idea!" he exclaimed. "Lafferty's been selling rights to go trawling through the place, at a silver dollar a man. We didn't know it weren't to be disturbed!"

"Shame on you, Clay Aitken, if you didn't know better than to spend your time grave robbin'!" Nathan said severely.

"What's going to happen?" pleaded one of the nameless men with Clay.

Nathan fixed him with a baleful glare. "You'll wake the ghosts, with all your treasure hunting, and then you'll see."

"What... what do they look like?" asked Clay tremulously. 

"Like the cursed dead," said Nathan. "Skeletons covered in shreds of decaying flesh, turned putrid by time and death. Clawed hands reaching towards you in hopeless need and empty sockets staring straight into your soul." He didn't need to make this up. He had seen it, again and again in the War. He only had to close his eyes for the horrors to spring up unbidden. "Their skulls gleam even in the darkness and their gaping mouths are always open. And they scream and wail their desperate, unending cries." He looked each of the men hard in the eye. "And that's what you're disturbing."

Nathan took a long drink of his beer when the men had fled. Lies, and he knew it. There was nothing stopping the plundering of the dead but the morals of the living, and those morals were precious little protection from men like Pete Lafferty.

Ezra finished up his poker game and sauntered over to where Nathan sat alone. 

"Hey, Ezra," Nathan said dispirtedly. He felt a sudden flush of guilt as he looked up at the gambler. Here he was, carrying out the same ruse he had always berated Ezra for plying.

Ezra smiled at him cheerfully, rubbing a thumb along his lower lip in that way he had when he was certain to be up to no good. "I've been hearin' of a treasure ground, of sorts. Has any information of the sort crossed your path, Mr Jackson?"

"Not you too, Ezra!" Nathan berated. "I thought you had better sense than them fools, if not finer morals."

"Why Nathan," Ezra said in surprise. "It's a cardinal sin to waste, and the dead won't be needin' their gold and silver. Now me, on the other hand..."

"Get going with you," Nathan said in disgust. "And you stay away from that burial ground, if you know what's good for you." 

"Wealth is generally good for me," answered Ezra, and he tipped his hat as he left.

"I'm surrounded by fools and villains," Nathan grumbled.

He was on the balcony of the clinic a few hours later, appreciating the fresh afternoon breeze that billowed through after the heat of the day. There was some kind of commotion in the distance, a few riders coming in hard towards the town. As they got nearer, Nathan could hear screams and shouting. Then he picked out Ezra's red jacket amongst the horsemen and he dropped everything he had in his hands and hurried down the stairs.

They had drawn a sizable crowd, and Nathan fought to push his way towards the front.

"Ezra!" he yelled. "Ezra, you alright?"

Ezra looked around wildly and panicked eyes met Nathan's. "Ghosts!" he moaned. "Ghosts of the dead, coming to claim us all!"

"What do you mean? What happened to him?" he demanded of the crowd.

"He came to look for treasure," ventured one of the men who had come back with him. "There were six or seven of us who'd paid Lafferty for the right, and Mr Standish here came later on. Was no trouble to begin with, but he began poking around one of the back caves and we didn't hear from him for a bit. And then there was this weird crying and Mr Standish here bolted out of the caves, screaming about ghosts and looking scared out of his life. We didn't waste any time, then - we lit outta there fast as the horses could carry us."

Nathan didn't know what to think. He looked at Ezra, who was still wailing about ghosts and the damned in a manner that he'd never seen from the suave southern gambler before. 

"It marked me!" Ezra cried out. "As a warning to you all. Behold!" And he shoved up the arm of his shirt and coat to expose a livid red tattoo that suggested a creature with fangs and claws and horns. The crowd drew back in a mixture of horror and alarm. 

Nathan grabbed him by the arm - the other arm - and propelled him towards the clinic. "Come on Ezra," he said gently to the frantic man. "Let's get you looked at."

They left the hysterical babbling of the crowd and retreated into the quiet coolness of Nathan's quarters. Ezra was oddly subdued.

"What happened back there?" Nathan wanted to know. 

The terror had left Ezra's face, and he had stopped shaking. He calmly took a seat on Nathan's chair and looked back at Nathan with those deceptively guileless green eyes.

"I haven't the faintest clue, Mr Jackson," he declared. "Crowds can be so unpredictable.

"Ezra," said Nathan warningly, although temper and relief were battling inside him.

Ezra smiled winningly. "Why, I was just practicing my daily physical culture exercises. Keeps my vocal chords limbre. It certainly wasn't my intention to create any, ah, panic amongst my fellow treasure hunters."

"Physical culture exercises?" said Nathan disbelievingly. 

"Ah, yes," ventured Ezra, still looking as innocent as a choir boy. "It's very good for the lungs. Helps guard against consumption, in fact."

"And the bit about being marked?" Nathan said dryly.

"Why, I've always found inspiration from the works of Shakespeare," replied Ezra. "A most remarkable man. Out, damned spot!"

"Let me see your arm," said Nathan, trying not to laugh. 

It was stained with ladies' rouge.

"Not bad, if I do say so myself," Ezra said approvingly, studying the twisted lines. 

"What are we going to do with you, Ezra?" Nathan asked him, but he was smiling broadly now.

"I have no idea what you're referring to," Ezra declared loftily, but there was an answering twinkle in his eyes. "It certainly wasn't my intention to become the focus of your ghost story, ingenious though it was."

Nathan flushed at this reminder. "I didn't think it was right, that was all," he said, humbly. "Ain't right, to be robbin' from the dead. Or anyone else for that matter," he added, in case Ezra got any ideas.

But Ezra merely nodded thoughtfully. "The dead don't have anyone to protect them... except themselves. I approve of the poetic justice in your thinking."

"You reckon that'll keep the treasure hunters away?"

Ezra cocked his head to one side. "I believe it could be arranged," he said. "I've a certain, ah, level of experience in this area, you might say."

"Experience? In this area?" Nathan hadn't known what "this" was, let alone the fact that it was an area, and one in which Ezra had expertise, of all things. That gambler was a strange man, there was no doubting that. 

Ezra looked around warily, as if making sure no-one else was listening. "I have found that the price of real estate tends to depreciate rather sharply when potential purchasers believe that the property is inhabited by supernatural forces." He shrugged. "A result of the superstitious masses, I'm sure."

Nathan ignored the implications. Things were simpler that way. "You think you could help me rig it so that no-one else goes back to those burial grounds?" he asked.

"Easier than finding a ghost in a graveyard," Ezra replied, without even a hint of irony.

They shook on the deal, and there was an added warmth and understanding in both men's eyes that hadn't been there before.

.......

A week later, the seven of them sat around a table at the saloon, beer and whiskey glasses well filled.

"What d'you reckon of that old haunted Indian burial place?" Buck asked idly.

No-one around the table spoke. 

JD believed - Nathan could see it in his eyes. Vin, too - he had seen enough of the world - the Indians' world, at that - to know better than to dismiss these things out of hand. Chris had enough of his own ghosts to disbelieve the ghosts of others.

Josiah raised an eyebrow, though.

"Ghosts," he mused skeptically. "Don't believe the Seminole know anything about spirits around that area."

"Divine intervention, perhaps," Ezra put in mildly. His eyes met Nathan's, and he winked.

Nathan smiled. "I'd put my money on something a little less divine."


End file.
